


A Kind of End Game

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that the truth is unravelling, the full scope of the Moriarty problem is becoming apparent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Lady Smallwood is Moriarty’s mother._ The thought banged around in Mycroft’s head as he ate. The breakfast of crisply pan-fried lake perch, hashbrowned potatoes and fresh apples was far outside his usual experience but he couldn’t fault it for taste. _Lady Smallwood is Moriarty’s mother._ “I’ve known Lady Smallwood for years,” he said quietly, “I would have said she was the **last** person I would consider to be heading up a massive criminal organisation.”

“I told you what I know about Moriarty’s father,” Philip shrugged.

Mycroft nodded, “And it certainly fits with my experience of Lord Smallwood.” He shook his head slowly, “She assisted us against Moriarty.”

“There was evidence suggesting they knew Sherlock was alive all along,” Philip nodded.

“She is well known for her efforts to further the security of the Kingdom. She is revered for her philanthropy…” 

“It’s **possible** she didn’t know,” Philip said slowly, “I’ve met a lot of the wives of serial killers and drug lords and such like, and most of them knew **something** was off but were in denial about how bad it was. If it was just her sons, I’d be more likely to believe she didn’t know but,” he blew out his lips, “Quite frankly, if the focus is actually on **you** and not **Sherlock** , it does make more sense.”

Mycroft sighed, “Of all the people who might seek to depose me, I would never have named her.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Philip said, “Or maybe it’s not **actually** her. Maybe it’s her family wanting her on the throne, so to speak. But it definitely looks like someone wants you _off_ the throne, one way or another.”

“What a picturesque way of putting it,” Mycroft said dryly.

Philip shrugged, “Your main pressure point is Sherlock. Maybe they were hoping you’d lose credibility after discrediting him, or that you’d resign out of grief after killing him, or that you’d burn out from worry after he went into hiding. They tried to do it nicely because you’re too delicately placed to risk attacking you directly.” 

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, “It was she who gave me the order to release Moriarty from our custody. She told me what we had was insufficient to hold him. I never suspected she might have had another motive.”

Philip nodded, “The fact that you’re **here** indicates they’re scared enough to take the risk now.” 

“Yes, **here** ,” Mycroft spat, gesturing, “In the boondocks, away from **everything** , with no way to know what’s going on! I can’t even find my phone!”

“Sherlock kept it as a precaution,” Philip said, “Sergeant Gregson and I thought if the danger was that great, it might be safer to get you right off the grid. There’s no cellular access here and the GPS maps aren’t accurate, they’ll have you driving off imaginary roads into a lake that’s actually a cliff.” He reached into a drawer and withdrew a mobile phone, “ **This** phone gets emergency cellular service but it’s not routed to the regular 911 services, it’s routed somewhere else. It’s for you, you can use it when we’re in town.”

“ _Is_ there a town?” Mycroft said dryly.

“Oh yeah, we’re about fifteen minutes from the little hamlet at the Narrows where I pick up petrol and groceries. We’re only forty-five minutes from where I live outside Bracebridge.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, relaxing a little. 

Philip was silent for a moment. “Did I… make a mistake? Sherlock said you like it quiet and don’t like people very much and his letter said you have a club where no one’s allowed to speak, so I thought maybe…”

Mycroft held up a hand, unable to stop a weary smile from cracking his face. “I am… disquieted by my situation, Mr. Anderson, that is all, and I’m… unused to having no means of monitoring communications whatsoever. I’m certain I will come to enjoy this location once I’ve adjusted to my circumstances. Your decision to locate me here is quite reasonable, given what my brother has told you. I would venture to say you have actually done quite well. Does this cottage belong to you?”

“No, it belongs to my landlord’s brother. Right now we’re between seasons so it’s dead quiet, nobody around, but in a fortnight, the hunting season will begin. The owner comes out with several of his family members and it can get quite crowded. We can go back to the place I rent in Bracebridge then, if you like.”

“Rather, I’m sure,” Mycroft said, unable to keep his distaste off his face. He wasn’t sure which he found more distasteful, hunting or the prospect of a large number of people in the tiny cabin.

“In the meantime, there’s fishing, boating, there’s a canoe and kayaks, hiking…” Philip broke off and stared as the phone began ringing. He checked his own phone, “No signal. It must be coming in over the emergency channel?” He glanced up but Mycroft’s face was as expressionless as Sherlock’s ever was. Cautiously, his heart rate abruptly leaping, he picked up the phone and thumbed it, “…Hello? … Oh! Sergeant Gregson, yes, hello! Yes. Yes… Oh, really? Cribbage? - yes. Crokinole, what’s crokinole? Sure.. Yes, I’ll ask…” Philip took the phone from his ear and covered the microphone, “We’ve been invited ‘round Sergeant Gregson’s cottage for playing cribbage and crokinole tonight.”

“Which, given what you’ve told me about that phone, is almost certainly not what’s going to happen,” Mycroft agreed in a low voice.

“He says his neighbour will be there, a Louis Thibault.”

Mycroft sat up abruptly, a certain satisfied delight spreading his face into a smile, “Ah, is that so? Well that is indeed most kind of him. Tell him yes, we shall take him up on his invitation.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits his old Major and learns some important lessons including, You can't always tell by looking.

_Eggs, cheese, bacon, milk, more bloody milk, always bloody milk._ John was buying groceries again, trying to avoid thinking about his weekly Tesco Row, wherein he continued to lose his arguments with the chip-and-pin machines. _I can’t be the only one who wants cashiers. Maybe I can start a petition. Or a revolution, I could be good at revolutions. Grocerie Liberte! Viva la Cashier! I could do that._

“…Excuse me?”

_We did liberations in Afghanistan. Alright, I wasn’t actually part of the liberations, more like the clean-up crew but still, gotta start somewhere._

“…Excuse me, are you…?”

_Anyways, how hard could it be, liberating groceries from chip-and-pin insurgents? Mind you, I keep losing against them, could be trickier than I thought. Best not to underestimate them._

“…Captain John Watson?”

_That’s a bit unusual. Don’t get that very often anymore._ John looked around to see a man about his own age, gazing at him. He seemed vaguely familiar but John couldn’t place him, “Hm? Yes? Sorry, did we serve together?”

“Oh my God, it is **such** an honour to meet you! Can I shake your hand?” John remained blankly baffled as his hand was seized and pumped a few times. “You saved my boyfriend’s life!”

“Ah, well, glad to hear it,” John smiled, “Mr…?”

“Thomson, Hank Thomson, sir, call me Hank, please, everyone does. Wow, I can’t believe I ran into you! It’s Jim’s favourite story, you know, how you and your partner saved his life at your wedding. I **never** get tired of hearing it, he said you were just incredible!”

John’s brain finally caught up. “I’m sorry, **my** wedding? Your boyf— _James Sholto_ is your boyfriend? My old Major?”

Hank nodded, happily oblivious, “You should come ‘round, Jim would love to see you, are you free?”

“Um, yes, actually yes, I’d love to see him again, yes alright,” John said rapid-fire, “Let me take these back home and I’ll come visit, alright?”

“This is great!” Hank beamed, pulling out his mobile, “Jim’ll be so happy!”

John nodded, “Right. See you in a bit, then.” He pulled out his own mobile and sent off a text, then paid for his groceries after a modest row, as his Tesco rows went. 

The text he received had him thinking all the way back to 221b. He put the groceries away and headed out again immediately to catch a cab. He spent the entire journey in confused thought. He’d known Major Sholto for years and he was as much of a ladies’ man as John was. What was he doing with a boyfriend? _besides_ the obvious…

The house was well outside London, hidden by trees on a secluded but well-kept lot. As far as John knew, the Major was still staying hidden from the outside world, but the house did not have the “fortress compound” look that John had feared. The door opened and Hank ushered him into a formally but warmly furnished interior. Major Sholto got up from the couch and came forward, smiling, “John. Glad you could come by.”

“Thanks for having me,” John said, clasping the Major’s hand. He took a seat on the couch, “I’m sorry about the text but with the troubles I’ve been having… Well, I’ve been duped before.”

“It’s fine, John, perfectly understandable,” Major Sholto nodded, “And I’m… certain it came as a surprise.”

John nodded, “It was. I remembered you as something of a ladies’ man, back in the service.”

“We weren’t exactly stationed in friendly territories, John,” Sholto said wryly, “I was always bisexual.”

John blinked. “You were?” he blurted, then immediately chastised himself. 

Sholto smiled, “Actually, I have you to thank for bringing Hank and I together.”

“You do?”

Sholto nodded and smiled up at his partner as Hank brought out the tea tray. “Hank was a nurse at the hospital I went to after your wedding.”

“He was?” _Good God, John, you sound like a dumb-struck idiot! …mind you, that’s kind of what I am._

“I heard your wife passed away? I’m sorry to hear it.”

“What? Oh, yeah, yeah, right,” John cleared his throat, “She, uh, she died, uh, yeah.”

“I heard she was pregnant?” Sholto prompted. 

“Yeah, yeah she was, uhm, yeah.” _Ah… that’s a bit not good,_ John thought, realising he was not responding as expected of a widower, “Um, the baby died too, actually. Actually, she died first and that’s what killed… um… Mary. She got an infection and she died. Both of them. Mary. And the baby. They both died.” _Oh fuck me, did I just forget my wife’s name?!_ “I’m with Sherlock now,” he blurted.

“The detective fellow who was in love with you?”

John’s head snapped up, “What? Fuck me, did **everybody** notice but me?”

Now it was Sholto who looked surprised, “You didn’t realise?”

“Well, _no_ , because I’ve only ever dated _women_ ,” John said, exasperated.

Sholto blinked, “Huh! I’d always had you pegged as bisexual as well. I figured you were hiding while we were stationed, same as I was.”

John stared at him. Abruptly his exasperation evaporated and he deflated, “I… I guess that’s why I’m here. I’ve… never been interested in men before but Sherlock…” He didn’t see Sholto and Hank share an understanding glance. “I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t know how to act or…” he looked up, “I guess I came to ask for advice.”

Sholto nodded understandingly, “We’ve both been there, John. You’re coming into it a little later than we did but we both know what it’s like, realising that you’re not really one thing or the other and that you’re a lot more fluid than you thought you were.”

Hank nodded, “And there’s a lot of myths about bisexuality and a lot of erasure. Like you’re not **really** bi if you don’t have two lovers, as if that’s all people are for.”

“As if we can’t make a choice,” Sholto agreed.

“Or stick with it. I get that sometimes, ‘Oh your partner is a man so you’re really gay.’ Sorry, still bi.”

Sholto nodded. “There’s not a lot of support for bi men, John, so absolutely you can talk to us. I’m glad you felt you could turn to us.”

John swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. “I’ve always trusted you,” he said, “And I’ve always admired you. You’ve always given me sound advice and I guess… I guess…”

Sholto smiled. “Tell me about this man of yours. He was something to see.”

“Oh God, you have no idea.”

* * * *

A few hours later, John was into his third beer, his thirteenth Sherlock story, and his discomforts about dating a man. “And what do I do in public? How do I treat him?” he was saying, “I know how to treat a lady but…”

Sholto nodded, “You take a lot of things for granted when you’re dating women. Dating a man, you become very much more aware of where your privileges are. An opposite sex couple snog on the Tube and nobody thinks anything of it, but hold your boyfriend’s hand and people start muttering about ‘flaunting it.’”

“I think that’s part of what I’m afraid of,” John mused, “The harassment. I get bothered by people thinking I’m gay because… because of what the harassment did to my sister, what she’s become of it. I don’t know if I can deal with it.”

“From what you’ve told me, you’ve already been dealing with it.” John blinked at him and Sholto smiled, “And from what you’ve told me, you get more people approving than disapproving. A lot more.”

John stared into his beer again. “Angelo threw a couple out, once, because they were making comments about us. They said they’d post it on the Internet and ruin his business.”

“Did it?”

“No, once word got out that he was gay-friendly, his business doubled. Now his restaurant is a top romantic dinner spot for gay couples.”

“Does that bother you?”

John shook his head, “No. Well, only that one time my sister showed up with her new girlfriend. ‘Course, they broke up four days later.”

Sholto took a pull off his own beer, thoughtful. “You’ve always been a by-the-book man, John. You’ve always followed procedure and you’ve never liked to stand out. Then you partnered up with a man who stands out just by existing and the work you do together is anything but procedure.”

“So?”

“So, how do you manage working with Sherlock, knowing there’s no procedure?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always been good at improvising. I’m good at winging it when I’ve had to, you know that. It didn’t take me long to work out what Sherlock needs me to do when he’s on a case.”

“Exactly, John. Now can you apply that to dating Sherlock? Because I’m pretty certain that the usual ways of dating men won’t apply to him either.”

John thought of the gay club they’d visited during their stag night pub crawl and shook his head, “No, I suppose not. I mean, I don’t know much about it, but I know he’s not much of a clubber.” He grinned, “His idea of a night out is going out to a crime scene and then out to dinner.”

Sholto smirked, “Most people go to the movies to watch fake crimes. You go to real ones.”

“That’s true,” John said, “Hmm. I never thought of it like that.”

“So you already have a feel for what you both enjoy doing, you’re already coping with what harassment you get, you’ve already got a place to go that you both enjoy and you know you’re welcome, and your collegues have already accepted that you’re partners — what else is there?”

John chewed all of that over, realising that his Major was right — he was already doing everything he was worrying about. But… “There’s Sherlock,” he said at last, “He’s got himself convinced that he’s incapable of a relationship, hell, he’s convinced that nobody would even want him. He’s heard it so often, he believes it.”

“He’s definitely in love with you,” Sholto pointed out.

“Maybe,” John nodded, “But he’s certain it could never be requited.”

“Is it?”

John hesitated. Finally he nodded, “Yeah. Yeah. It is, it’s…” He sighed heavily, “He’s _Sherlock._ But he’s got himself convinced that it **can’t** be. I’m only partly to blame for that, the rest is him being told he’s too much of a freak and an arsehole for anyone to want him, that he doesn’t deserve it. He’s got himself convinced that I’ll get fed up with him and leave. And alright, I won’t say there haven’t been times I’ve been tempted. What he said at my wedding was the stone cold truth, he **is** an arse and he can get almost impossible sometimes. He comes close but he never crosses the line.”

“He tests you.” John felt silent. Sholto shrugged with a little smile, “It’s alright, I test Hank. I don’t usually realise when I’m doing it but… I don’t know why he puts up with me.”

John snorted and had to smile, “Probably for the same reasons I put up with Sherlock. Because of what he gives in return.”

“Then that’s your next challenge, Captain Watson,” Sholto said craftily, “Your next mission is to break through that man’s programming and prove to him that he is worthy of you. You’ll need to remain steadfast and you’ll be tested many times and your mission may take years, but I know you’re the right man for this job.”

“Fuck, you’re as bad as he is,” John couldn’t help but chuckle, “Alright, yes. Yes, you’re right. And I think I know what to do, too.” He drew out his phone and sent a text, then looked up and smiled, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome to come visit again. And bring your boyfriend, we’d love to meet him properly.”

“Alright but don’t ask him to deduce you, that only ends in disaster.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Anderson visit Sgt. Gregson's cottage to play crokinole and cribbage. 
> 
> ...Not.

Mycroft was grudgingly impressed. He stared at the paper map then at the GPS. The GPS had the name of the lake wrong and was showing a road to the right. A quick glance out the window showed no road, but a sheer drop into black water far below. This was, he had to admit, an ideal location.

The cottage they were approaching was a more modern construction of redwood and glass, larger and more open in its design. Sergeant Gregson welcomed them in and ushered them to the sitting room with its view overlooking the lake. 

“Monsieur Fields!”

Mycroft’s face split into a delighted grin, “Monsieur Thibault, ça fait longtemps. Ça va?”

“Oui, ça va!” M. Thibault turned to introduce him to the sergeant, “Tom, Tanya, you must meet my friend, Daniel Fields.”

Gregson shook his hand, “A pleasure to meet you, Daniel. Louis, this is Geoffrey Fallon, a forensics technician who works with my team. I have to say, we’ve been glad to have him. Geoff, this is my neighbor, Louis Thibault, and this is his friend, Tanya Kusugak.” 

“A pleasure,” Philip said, shaking hands. 

“Now, some business while we wait for our meal,” Louis said, “Daniel, you must surely be wondering about the necessity of this? Let me put your mind at ease.” He opened his tablet and called up an image, “Do you recognise this man?”

Mycroft took the pad, sucking in his breath. “I do,” he said after a moment, “He is one of the porters at Vauxhall Cross.” He flipped to another image, one which Philip recognised. “I see. My assistant’s shoes. She believed them to have been stolen while she was at a class. So it was he who stole them?”

“We have uncovered evidence that he is working for this man,” Louis said and called up another image, of a man who looked almost exactly like Jim Moriarty. “This man has been going by the name of Henry Peters.”

Mycroft blinked, “Henry Pet- ‘Holy’ Peters? The fund-raising fellow that Lady Smallwood is always talking about? She is always direct-ing…” Mycroft’s voice trailed off as the new connections became apparent, “Oh **no.** ” He pinched the bridge of his nose, “She is always telling us to direct our philanthropic donations through him.”

“Oh lovely!” Philip crowed, “And how much have you donated?”

Mycroft glared at him, “Do I look like a charitable man, Mr. Fallon?”

“You look like a man who keeps up appearances, so yes.”

“Unfortunately true,” Mycroft sighed. He looked at Louis, “I have never met Mr. Peters, otherwise I would have made the connections immediately. Surely fund-raising is not his only activity?”

“He is also an expert in top-security IT and is a preferred contractor at Vauxhall Cross, Thames House, and the Houses of Parliament.”

“Of course he is,” Mycroft sighed.

“He does my job,” Tanya supplied.

Louis nodded, “Mr. Fallon, Agent Sigerson has described you as the best forensics technician he has yet worked with. How are you at IT forensics?”

“I’m more crime scene analysis than IT,” Philip admitted, “I’ve done some IT forensics but mostly I just think about where to look.”

Louis nodded again, “That’s what Agent Sigerson said. Tanya is the best technical analyst we have. You will pair with her.”

“You track, I hack,” Tanya grinned. 

Philip grinned back then said, “I’m sorry, what are we looking for?”

“Evidence confirming the link of Lady Smallwood to the Moriarty network,” Louis confirmed, “This affects not only England, but all the Commonwealth nations, Mr. Fallon, and it extends into the U.S.A., as well. These people are very skilled and very slippery. We cannot afford any mistakes.”

“Ms. Kusugak, you said he does your job,” Mycroft cut in, “He’s a technical analyst?”

Tanya grinned, “Oh yeah! All those state secrets.”

“And then he had Magnusson feeding him the non-state secrets,” Mycroft sighed.

“Oh yeah. Pretty good set-up, eh?”

“And they’re protected by Lady Smallwood,” he nodded, seeing it now, “And me. **I** protected Magnusson.”

“Yeah. Only now he’s gone, so she don’t need you now, eh?”

Mycroft sat back, stunned. 

“There is evidence to suggest that they have been setting the pieces in place to take down all of you at once,” Louis said sympathetically, “It would have to be. And with you gone, there would be no one left to stand in their way.”

* * * *

Philip spent the drive back to the cottage in silence that was only partly necessitated by the need to concentrate on the road in the darkness. He waited until they were both back in the cottage and he had the kettle on before asking, “Um, am I allowed to know what I’ve gotten myself into?”

Mycroft poked inexpertly at the embers in the wood stove and glanced up, “They were with CSIS, the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. They were using aliases, just as we were. My brother must have contacted them.”

“I see.”

Mycroft fed some kindling into the stove and sat back on his heels, “You have proven to have many valuable traits, Mr. Anderson. Although you are gullible and prone to jumping to conclusions, you are also honest, trustworthy, and observant. Although you are poor at reading evidence, you have a knack for knowing where to look for it. Right now, we need these traits more than ever. The person I trusted most, outside my family, has proven to be the person I should have trusted least. My own judgement has proven to be flawed, so I must rely on my little brother’s judgement which, I’m sure you understand, I am not comfortable doing. Sherlock has placed you **here** , not only to keep you safe, but to make you available to a centre that **he** trusts.”

“Okay,” Philip nodded, “Yeah. I thought it might be something like that. I track and she hacks; okay, I get it now. Hm. Actually… Yeah. I do have some ideas. You said he did fund-raising, right? For which charities? What if they were laundering money through them?”

Mycroft smiled mirthlessly, “An excellent place to start.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Anderson are both chasing leads, but none of them seem to be leading to what they hope to find.

John woke, feeling warm. The bed was empty but not long, by the feel of it. He turned and curled up in Sherlock’s warm spot, inhaling the aromas left by their evening at the Turkish baths. 

Evenings at the baths had quickly become precious moments in John’s heart. Sherlock was less reticent on those evenings, at his most human and unguarded. It was as though the steam of the baths cleansed his masks along with his skin. His whole manner changed and John found him charmingly boyish and emotive. John found himself endeared and humbled, knowing that he was the only one who had ever seen Sherlock this open since he was a child. 

And he was opening up in response. Afterwards, they would return to their flat on Baker Street, John would put on the stereo, and they would dance for a while. Then they would cuddle on the couch, talking of anything, then go to bed and Sherlock would spoon himself against John, arms wrapped around him as if John were the world’s best teddy bear. There was never any sexual contact on those nights, but John felt more deeply connected with Sherlock than he had ever felt with anyone else. 

There might or might not be sexual contact the next morning, carried over on the glow of the evening before and the normal tide of male hormones to which not even Sherlock Holmes was immune. Not the case this morning, though, John thought as he snuggled contentedly into Sherlock’s pillow. The flat was quiet but the floor creaked with the sound of Sherlock’s pacing feet. _Probably looking at the case wall again,_ John thought. After a few minutes, John’s stomach growled and he decided to get up and make some breakfast. 

Ah! Indeed, the flat was _not_ empty. There was Sherlock, pacing before his case wall, laptop open on the coffee table. And there, in the clients’ chair, was Janine, signing and occasionally messaging on her tablet. Sherlock had been quiet because he was also signing rather than speaking. 

“Looks like I’ll have to learn some British Sign Language,” John smiled as he brought out coffee. 

Janine smiled at him and leaned forward to type ‘I have a good teacher,’ flashing Sherlock a smile. 

John turned to him and handed him a cup, “I didn’t know you knew BSL?”

“Peter Hopkins was my client,” Sherlock shrugged, “I saw an opportunity.”

John nodded. One thing about Sherlock, he wouldn’t let anything come between him and an interesting case, certainly not language barriers. “Something’s up, then?”

“Janine has been giving me whatever information she can find on Magnusson’s victims, both dead and those still living. I’m looking for common threads and I’ve found quite a few of them.”

“Threads that link back to the Smallwoods?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find, yes,” Sherlock nodded. Janine’s hands danced for a minute and Sherlock nodded again. “Magnusson might have kept all of his information in his head but his lackeys didn’t. Janine’s working her contacts and not above leveraging her disability to do it.”

“Oh god, I can imagine,” John chuckled and went to flip the bacon. 

‘That’s another thing that’s weird,’ Janine signed, ‘A lot of them have gone off on charitable missions, religious retreats, that sort of thing.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock signed back. He tented his hands briefly against his lips for a moment before moving them again, ‘And they haven’t come back.’

* * * *

Mycroft looked up at the crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway. With the hunting season having started, the cottage was seeing heavier use by its owners, so Philip had taken him back to his house in Bracebridge. Not that it was any less pleasant, tucked away among the trees on its five acre lot. It also had wifi and cellular access, allowing Mycroft to make a few discreet inquiries.

Over the past fortnight, Mycroft had found that he had indeed come to enjoy the cottage’s isolation. Hikes in the woods had never been his thing but without his treadmill, he’d needed to substitute and he’d found the brisk air and colourful trees to be pleasant enough. He had ample time to think and he found that, in these surroundings, his thoughts took on a different character. 

To his own surprise, he found he’d even enjoyed his initial meetings with the cottage’s owners, as they were very quiet, easy-going people. He’d even accompanied Philip and his landlord, the owner’s brother, on a “hunting” trip that, since there was no sign of any actual game about, amounted to quietly wandering the woods and learning how to shoot. 

Philip was rather entertaining to watch, as after every shot he tried, he went over to scrutinise the bullet holes and calculate their angles. It was by no means Mycroft’s first time handling a gun, let alone a hunting rifle, but it **was** his first time with a bow and he found it quite enjoyable. Boating proved to be considerably more fun than he had anticipated. He’d anticipated the kayak to be similar to a canoe and was pleasantly surprised to find it much more stable on the water. Although he was secretly grateful that there was only Anderson to witness his encounter with Franky, the cottage’s resident dock spider, and not Sherlock.

It had quickly become apparent why Sherlock had chosen to saddle him with Anderson. Anderson was in every way a goldfish, but he was hospitable and prone to enough occasional flashes of intelligence to be worthwhile tolerating. He was a mediocre cook but generous with what he had and he enjoyed showing Mycroft the various minor delicacies of his adopted home. And he was very dedicated to his job.

He looked around as Philip entered, noting his hesitant manner and almost guilty glance, and smiled. “Good evening, Geoffrey,” he said, always mindful that they were under cover for a reason, “How was work?” Yep, there was the wince. “And what is it that you’re not sure you want to tell me?”

Philip gaped at him and shook his head, “That’s almost scary.”

“My little brother does come by it honestly. We used to make a game of it. I always won, of course.”

Philip rolled his eyes and shook his head again. Finally he admitted, “Some people at work made a few… assumptions and I… didn’t correct them.”

“Ah! And for how long have we been dating?”

Philip gaped at him again before admitting, “I didn’t specify, I kept it kind of vague. You’re not upset?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Of course not. When fabricating a cover story, if people jump to a natural assumption, it’s always best to run with it. We are seldom apart and this assumption explains that quite neatly,” he shrugged, “We are English, so people will expect that we will not be publicly affectionate. You are newly immigrated and naturally, once you were settled down, your partner would come over to see how you were getting on. You would wish to woo a partner into following you, so you are showing me around to show me all that Ontario’s cottage country has to offer. It would have attracted more attention had you _denied_ our involvement.”

Philip nodded, relieved. “That’s what I thought. I wasn’t sure if you’d be okay with it,” he said, going to the fridge for a beer and sitting down. Mycroft reached into the oven and pulled out a plate of supper for him. Philip’s job called him out at all hours and Mycroft was entirely at home in the kitchen. “Work was fun. Well, I say ‘fun’, geez I sound just like him. And don’t I just wish I could call him, I’m sure he’d find this one interesting. Another body, the department says it’s a bear attack even though the rangers say it isn’t. So I asked one of them to show me.”

“And?” 

“And I think they’re right, it’s not a bear. The slashes and puncture wounds are too regular, so I got some punches and sure enough, it’s a murder, made to _look_ like a bear attack. And it’s not the first.”

“Ohhh, tragic — that **would** pique his interest,” Mycroft nodded.

“Yeah,” Philip took a pull off his beer and shovelled a few more bites of food into his mouth, “Anyhow, I’ve an online meeting with Tanya in fifteen. We’ve made a lot of progress, at least in identifying what they’re doing.”

“By all means,” Mycroft said.

When he finished eating, Philip opened his laptop and connected to the secure chat. “Hey, Tanya! What’s up?”

“Hey Geoff! Got some news today, eh? That Interpol guy, seems they’re on the same track we are.”

“Oh really! How so?”

“Yeah, he’s found lots of people who went on charity missions, religious retreats and stuff, and never came back.”

“Reeeeeally. And _we_ found all those charities, religious retreats and meditation enclaves fronting for a slavery trade.”

“Yeah. All those disappearances? - they’re connected to that newspaper guy. And guess where they went.”

“To those charities.”

“Got introduced to that ‘Holy Peters’ guy.” Philip’s breath exploded out of him and Tanya grinned, “Pretty slick, eh?”

“Very slick,” Philip said grimly, “But can we confirm a link to the Smallwoods?”

“I dunno. I’m finding lots of links to Holy Peters and lots of evidence to back up the donation funnelling, the slave trading and the assets theft, but I’m not finding anything at all in that direction.”

Philip blew out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair and over his beard. “Alright. Back to square one, I guess. Maybe… Can we follow some of the victims? Trace their steps, so to speak? Maybe that might tell us something.”

“Only one way to find out,” Tanya grinned. A half-hour later, she called back to announce, “Hey, I got a recent one, here. Francis Fairfax, went missing last year.”

“What’s her connection?”

“British peerage, Lady Fairfax, fell onto hard times and was a migrant for a while before she got back on her feet. Seems she did some things during her off time that Newspaper Guy was holding over her. He introduced her to Holy Peters. Seems she donated a lot of her assets, probably under pressure. Here, here we go: She went on a volunteer mission to Africa and met with a Dr. And Mrs. Schlessinger. She hasn’t been seen since.”

“What can you dig up about the Schlessingers?”

“I’ll call you when I’ve got something.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Anderson play crokinole. Sherlock gets web spam.

(13:42 ABC: They’re putting forth Denmark.)

(13:43 MH: No, that won’t do. Denmark is still in conversations with Canada. Tell them Switzerland as an alternative but direct our people to Finland.)

“Mr. Holmes reminds that Denmark is in negotiations with Canada and suggests Switzerland as an alternative.

Lady Smallwood glanced up at the woman, briefly wondering if Mycroft’s assistant _ever_ looked up from her phone. “Very well,” she said and sighed, “And do pass along my support for him regarding his brother. This must be such a trying time for him. Is recovery expected soon?”

“The facility rules prohibit giving any updates,” Mycroft’s assistant said smoothly. (13:50 ABC: She’s asking questions.)

Lady Smallwood nodded and sighed again, “And now, I suppose we must turn our attention to the developments in North Korea.”

* * * *

“Mr. Peters, sir? We were finally able to trace the phone’s signal. The GPS was disabled so it was more of a challenge.”

“Yesssssss, I know that, now where is it?”

“It’s coming from a house in Achitlibuie, Scotland, sir…”

“I’m not going to like what’s coming next, am I.”

“…No, sir.”

* * * *

Mycroft placed his fingernail against the small disc and flicked, sending it skating neatly across the round board to knock an opposing disc into the gutter.

“Brilliant!” Philip grinned.

“It’s hardly a challenging game,” Mycroft shrugged, “The principles are rather similar to curling.”

“It’s a cottage tradition,” Sergeant Gregson said, “We come to the cottage, we play crokinole.”

“Hardly surprising. It does appear to have originated here, at least in this particular form,” Mycroft nodded. He looked up at the crunch of tyres and watched as the sergeant eased over to peer out the window. His eased nod alerted them to the arrival of M. Thibault and Ms. Kusugak. 

After cordial greetings, Gregson put the pizzas into the warming oven while Tanya set up her laptop. “Geoff says you have something?”

“Oh yeah,” she grinned as it booted up, “Lots of stuff.” 

Mycroft leaned over to look at the images loading onto the monitor. His heart sank. “I had truly hoped that you would be wrong,” he sighed, “I truly had hoped.” Then his regret dissolved and the Ice Man was In, “The Fairfax family have not been members of the House of Lords for a long time. Lady Fairfax would not have recognised the Schlessingers as Lord and Lady Smallwood. Not many people would, really.”

Tanya nodded, “The whole family’s involved. Daddy can’t keep it in his pants and they blackmail the results into joining, usually as the muscle.”

“A British mafia,” Mycroft nodded, “No wonder Lady Smallwood tolerated his adulteries. I admit I did wonder why.”

“It’s all over the world. Practically a kid in every port,” Philip said.

“Quite probably deliberate,” Monsieur Thibault agreed.

Mycroft sighed, “It’s like the Habsburgs all over again.”

“With less inbreeding,” Tanya grinned.

* * * *

Sherlock sat up, blinking against the light from his mobile screen. Beside him, John moaned and grumbled as he was dragged up into a consciousness he was not ready for. Sherlock watched him carefully for a few moments and elected not to turn it down. Instead he looked back down at the screen as John groaned and his hand came up to shield his eyes. “Wh’t th’ hell, Sh’rl’ck?”

“It’s a text from an unknown number.”

John sat up, relieved as a surge of anticipation washed away the dregs of his nightmare. “Case?”

“Possibly. Does the word ‘Fairfax’ mean anything to you?”

John shook his head, “Not at this hour, it doesn’t. Should it?”

“That’s all it says. Just ‘Fairfax,’ sent from an anonymous number.”

John nodded and swung his legs out of bed, yawning, “Right. I’ll put the kettle on, then.”

Sherlock smiled at him as he passed. Carrying his phone, he followed John down the stairs then went to boot his laptop. He was frowning at it when John set the tea down beside him. “Finding anything?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, not looking away from the screen, “Quite a lot, but the only one standing out is a minor lady who went on a charity journey some while ago and hasn’t updated in a while. Her friends have begun worrying but no one’s called the Yard yet.”

John nodded, sitting beside him rather than across from him as usual. “Figure it’s worth looking into?”

“It’s a bit of a coincidence, which means it likely isn’t.” Sherlock sipped his tea then sighed heavily and flipped the tab to his website. He was about to close it again when something grabbed his attention.

“Tch, more idiotic Viagra spam,” John shook his head, then frowned as Sherlock hovered the cursor over the link, “Here, you’re not going to click that, are you? You know those things are full of viruses.”

“John, I know it’s the middle of the night and you just woke up but do at least try, just **read** it.”

John shot him a grumpy look but read aloud, “’P..E_N I-S_---E N-L_A_R_G-E M_E..N..T_--..P..I-L-L_S! Knew his mouth and start the inside. Got small wood? Daddy and leî to accept’ and then a bunch of gibberish. So?”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, “Read it again, John.”

John did and shot him another glare. Then he read it a third time. “ _Oh._ ”

Sherlock clicked the link and was only mildly surprised when, instead of the expected keystroke-collecting fake spammer website, only a blank screen with a password box appeared. He contemplated it for a few minutes, then glanced at his phone and typed in ‘Fairfax.’

Then both of their mouths dropped open. “Oh my God,” John breathed.

“This,” Sherlock nodded, “This is what we needed. Now I need to find out what they’ve done with Lady Fairfax.” Then his text alert chimed and he stared at it. 

“What is it?” John asked.

“Another unknown number. This time it’s an address,” Sherlock said then the alert chimed again, “’Shall we get this over with, Mr. Holmes?’”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally confronts the real "Moriarty" family.

“The ‘facility’ in Scotland,” he said slowly, “It doesn’t exist.”

Lady Smallwood looked up, “What?”

“I sent a few of my people to Achiltibuie to check it out. They found an empty cottage.”

“What??”

“They found his mobile, wiped clean.”

Lady Smallwood paled, “Then where is he?!”

He shook his head, “Whoever set this up was good. I had to get involved and even I had trouble finding any leads.”

“You did find some, though?”

“Eventually,” he grimaced, “We think he’s somewhere in the Commonwealth countries. Australia and Canada are the most likely targets.”

“Oh, for…!”

“Yes,” he nodded, “The two countries with the largest amount of space to get utterly lost in.”

* * * *

“No,” John said firmly, “You are **not** doing this alone.” He gripped his pistol firmly and tucked it into its usual pocket. “You realise we might be walking into a trap?”

“I’m certain of it,” Sherlock said, texting.

“Do we have any kind of backup?”

“We do, but not immediate,” Sherlock replied, sending another text. 

John wasn’t satisfied with that but didn’t argue it. “It’s out in the country, though. We’ll need to hire a car.”

“Already have,” Sherlock grinned.

* * * *

“Finally!”

Lady Smallwood looked up, “You found something?”

“Yes,” he snarled and turned around, “Remember that nosy security guard I’d had taken care of? Well apparently he’s less taken care of than I thought. They’ve found him in Canada, in the company of an OPP officer that Holmes had assisted while he was gone.”

“You think Mycroft might have gone there?”

“It’s a long shot but it’s a place to start. They’re people Holmes trusts, after all.”

* * * *

“ **This** is the car you’ve rented?!”

Sherlock popped open the door and gave John an innocent look, “Problem?”

* * * *

“They’ve found a lead. They’re on their way. I should bloody well go over there just to make sure it’s done **properly** this time.” He looked up. Lady Smallwood hadn’t acknowledged anything he’d said since her text alert chimed. “What? What is it?” Wordlessly she showed him the text, from an unknown number. “’You have guests, Lady Smallwood,’” he read.

“He wouldn’t be here unless he was ready. Unless he had solid evidence,” Lady Smallwood whispered.

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, “As if he’ll live long enough to present any of it.”

* * * *

It was a grey and misty day. John flipped his collar up and hunched his shoulders, suppressing a shiver in the clammy air. "Who puts their hunting lodge in view of a cemetery?" he said, but his glance skimmed over the stable to rest on the lodge itself.

"People who value their privacy," Sherlock said, "Possibly."

"People who are cheap, maybe. Lands next to cemetaries tend to lose some value."

"Hmm," Sherlock said absently, his eyes drifting over the distant graveyard, barely visible through the mist.

Beside him, John sucked in his breath, "Here we go."

"..mean 'you can't find it', it's right there on the GPS! Oh, are you telling me the GPS is _wrong?_ I just **looked** at it! What? Of course there's an isthmus, are you blind as well as an idiot? Hello? Hello??" The man stabbed a finger at his mobile, cutting the call, and blew out an exasperated sigh, "You just can't get good help these days!"

Sherlock stared at him, in every way the picture of Jim Moriarty, save for a few moles and the pattern of blood vessels in his eyes, ranting about how people were too stupid to use a GPS properly.

"For heaven's sake, Tommy, what's going on?" 

The man turned as Lady Smallwood approached. "I don't know, they got lost! There were a couple of thumps and then the call quit, I've no idea what's happening over there but that they're idiots. I should have gone over myself," he shook his head then stared balefully at Sherlock, "But then I wouldn't be here to take care of _you._ "

"'Holy Henry Peters.' Thomas Smallwood," Sherlock said quietly, "Older brother of Jeremy Smallwood, 'Jim Moriarty.'"

" **Don't** mention Jerry, I am **not** happy with him."

"I imagine not."

"Everything was safely under the radar until he went and developed his stupid little **crush.** "

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. "'Crush', what, hang on," John said, suddenly remembering something, "You mean that thing in the lab was _real?_ "

" **DUH!** " Thomas exploded, "What did you _think_ it was?!"

"Not that," Sherlock admitted.

" **NO** , you didn't even notice, did you? You're too **stupid.** Well, he didn't take that well, did he? I always told him, love isn't real, it's chemical, and it's always found in **losers.** "

Something flickered across Sherlock's eyes but John couldn't tell quite what it was. 

John stepped in, "So, all of that, the bombs, the smear campaign, forcing Sherlock to fake his death and leave me behind - all of that was because he couldn't handle rejection?!?"

"He thought he'd finally found someone worthy of him, someone who could be his equal," Thomas smirked at Sherlock, "And you didn't even notice. You had no idea, did you?" Sherlock shook his head minutely and Thomas's smirk widened, "That's what he couldn't handle. Not being noticed. Well you noticed him pretty quickly after that."

"Now hang on," John interjected, "You had a thriving underground network of activities going on, you yourself just said you were under the radar, and **he** couldn't handle not being noticed? That doesn't make sense!"

Thomas looked at him coolly, "Well I never said Jerry was the _smart_ one."

There was silence for a moment, before Sherlock turned, "And where do you fit in, Lady Smallwood?"

"We knew something was stymieing our business ventures but we never expected it to be just one person," she sighed, "There's so much to coordinate, so much to keep track of. We were expecting a team and we certainly weren't expecting him to be on the JIC. He's unlisted, you know."

"I know." 

"Once we identified that it was just one man in charge of it all, the course became clear: Get close to him, gain his trust, and keep track of his movements. Then I would simply relay the information to my husband and sons and they would know in which directions not to venture. It worked out very nicely." She chuckled sadly, "When Jeremy developed a crush on you, we didn't realise at the time that **you** were the little brother that Mycroft was always complaining about. 'Holmes' is a terribly common name, after all."

"It is," Sherlock agreed.

"I did admire him," Lady Smallwood admitted, "I never understood how he could keep track of it all, let alone spot all of the inconsistencies and flaws and then run it all together. How could one man do it all, let alone accumulate so much power? Do you know, Mr. Holmes, your brother is practically the king?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock said and allowed the ghost of a smile to twitch the corner of his lip, "That's why I can never remember about the Queen."

Thomas stared at him for a moment. “Any other questions before I kill you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. What did you do with Lady Francis Fairfax?" Sherlock asked. 

"Her?" Thomas looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. He put on the pious, open face of 'Holy Peters' and John shuddered. "Such a generous soul. She donated almost everything before she finally... ran dry." He tilted his head, “Is **that** why you called us out here? To talk about a washed-up peerage has-been?”

John and Sherlock glanced quickly at each other. “I didn’t call you out here,” Sherlock said, “You called **us** out.”

Lady Smallwood dug out her mobile, “You sent me a text!”

Sherlock presented his own mobile, “I didn’t. I did receive one, however.” They compared their phones, realising that the unknown numbers were the same, but neither from Sherlock nor Lady Smallwood. He stared at the Smallwoods as everyone realised the same question at the same time.

And almost missed the soft _*thipp*_. His hair moved in a motion he recognised a split second later and he turned to look at Thomas who was staring down at the growing patch of red on his chest. 

_"TOMMY!"_

Thomas looked up at Sherlock then at John, puzzled, as blood started to ooze from his mouth. 

_"What have you done to him?!”_

Then turned to look at his mother as his legs collapsed from under him. 

_”Oh God, you shot my son!"_

_*thipp*_

And her screams stopped suddenly as her head came apart.

She fell. 

John turned, his eyes darting, searching, finding at the roof of the stable.

_A crack shot._

_Authorised facial surgery._

She didn't look the same but he'd know her anywhere. 

_**Mary.** _

His eyes locked with hers. He didn't know her real name but he knew who she really was. He'd loved her. She'd stepped in to fill the ragged hole torn out of his heart when Sherlock died. He stretched out his hand towards the one he loved the most.

Reached back.

Found Sherlock's hand and pulled gently. 

Felt Sherlock turn and follow his gaze. Stepped back, pulling Sherlock against him. Saw her nod. Felt him nod back. Tipped his head to look up at Sherlock. When he looked back, she was gone. 

The clammy mist closed in and time started moving again. 

John looked around at the carnage, feeling his handgun weighing more than just his pocket. "Oh Lord. She didn't exactly do us a favour, did she?"


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary may have done them a favour after all.

It was late in the evening and the music was seeping through into the kitchen. Philip poured the grain mix into the slow cooker, setting up for his morning porridge. 

“Ah, is that what it is? ‘Red River Cereal,’” Mycroft read off the box and shrugged, “It’s a nice change from oatmeal.”

Philip nodded, “Yeah, someone at work told me about it. He gave me the maple treacle to put on it, too.”

“That **is** delicious,” Mycroft said, “But I have not been able to find it in the supermarkets.”

“Apparently it’s not sold commercially, you can only find it on the sugar farms themselves. Fortunately we’re not far from a sugar farm.”

Mycroft smirked, “You appear to have adapted rather quickly.”

Philip poured tea and sighed, “Well… Sherlock suggested I should treat this as if it were permanent, so… I am.”

Mycroft nodded, “Do you like it here?”

Philip sighed again and didn’t answer for a few moments. “I’m English,” he said at last, “But this place has a lot going for it. Back at home, I was barely able to afford my flat and here, I can afford the rent on _this_ , an entire house on a five-acre lot, with woods and everything.”

“And you have your career back,” Mycroft agreed. 

Philip wilted again, “Maybe not for long. Those ‘bear attacks’ are pointing in a direction I don’t like.”

Mycroft nodded.

They startled when Philip’s mobile rang. He picked it up and his eyebrows jumped when he heard the voice on the other end, "Oh **hi!** Geez, speak of the devil and… what? Yeah, sure thing, just a moment." He handed the phone to Mycroft, "It's Himself."

Mycroft's face split into a brief smile, quickly composed as he put the phone to his ear. And just as quickly crashed into a frown, " _What?_ Switch to Skype, immediately!" He jumped for Philip's laptop and opened Skype then put down the phone. 

"Something's wrong?"

"Very wrong," Mycroft said as the video call connected and the image stablised. 

Philip stared over his shoulder, "Ohhhhh dear."

"There was a sniper near the stable roof but you know how this is going to look," Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead, "I've warned you about that habit."

Philip nodded, "It looks like a murder-suicide."

Mycroft's head snapped up and Sherlock's face suddenly filled the screen as he flipped his phone around. "What?" they chorused. 

"Yeah," Philip nodded, "Get me a better look. Yeah, look at how they've fallen. If she found out her son was Moriarty and shot him then shot herself, it would look like that."

"This is a hunting lodge," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"Get me a look at the bullet wounds. I need to see the size and the angles." 

“We don’t have long,” Sherlock advised, “The shooter used a silencer so the staff haven’t been alerted yet.”

Mycroft frowned, “Did they not have their own security coverage?”

Sherlock glanced around, “I don’t think they had time to arrange any. It appears we took them by surprise.”

Philip jotted notes and did some calculations, then grabbed his mobile and started searching until he found what he was looking for, "Is there one of these?"

Back in England, Sherlock showed the image of the rifle to John, who frowned and nodded, "I'll go see." A few moments later, he returned, wearing his mirthless smile and carrying the rifle, "Found it on the ground. I'll bet it's exactly the rifle she used."

"She may have done us a favour after all," Sherlock murmured. 

* * * *   
“Jesus Christ,” the inspector breathed, “Is that… that Moriarty fellow?”

“Yes.”

“I thought he was dead?”

“His younger brother shot himself, yes,” Sherlock agreed, “It appears the brothers shared the ‘Jim Moriarty’ alias when conducting their activities, since they look almost identical.”

“Good God! What a shock to poor Lady Smallwood!”

They looked up as the forensic technician approached. “The bullets match the rifle,” he reported, “I guess the poor Lady was so shocked at finding out her own son was Moriarty, she took matters into her own hands.”

The inspector nodded then shook his head and looked up at Sherlock, “But what were **you** doing here, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock showed him the text summons he’d received, “I’d worked out that Mr. Smallwood was also ‘Holy Peters’, who was connected with the disappearance of Lady Francis Fairfax.”

The inspector looked aghast, “Holy Peters is Moriarty?! Good God! Poor Lady Smallwood, what a horror to have discovered.”

“Quite,” Sherlock said, “But on the matter of Lady Fairfax, Inspector, I should like you to investigate that grave over there.”

The inspector followed where Sherlock was pointed, squinting through the mist, “Yes, I see it. Why?”

“It’s much higher than the other fresh graves,” Sherlock said, “I think it may be holding more than one occupant.”

“Good God! You think Lady Fairfax is buried there?”

“Her or some other recent victim of Thomas Smallwood. It might be prudent to check the entire cemetery.”

“Good God!” the inspector said again. Sherlock bit his lip and noted John’s proud smile. 

“Are we free to go, Inspector?” John asked finally, after all of the statements had been taken, “We’ll be needed back in London, plus we need to return our rental.”

The inspector looked to where John had nodded and frowned, “ **That’s** your rental?”

Sherlock popped the door open and looked at him, “Problem?”

“Well… It’s not very BAMF, is it?” 

Sherlock smirked, “BAMF is a state of mind, Inspector. If you can’t be a BAMF in a Smart Car then you’re just not a BAMF.”

* * * *  
Sherlock’s text alert chimed just as he was closing the spa locker. He opened it again and took his mobile out, smiling with grim satisfaction, “They found Lady Fairfax in the grave, the one that was too high. She was still alive.”

John beamed, “Oh good!” Then his smile slowly faded, watching Sherlock’s face. 

Sherlock was shaking his head, “Not that good, I’m afraid. It appears she was poisoned and she’d been with insufficient oxygen for too long. She’s alive but that’s all. She’s in a vegetative state and the prognosis for recovery isn’t good.”

John shook his head sadly. The what-ifs welled up in his mind, as they always did in a case like this. If they’d gotten there sooner, if they’d known about the case earlier, if if if. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as they walked out into the warming room, hoping that the Turkish baths would purify his soul along with his skin.

“How did you even know she was there, in that grave?” John asked, after they had acclimated themselves in the warming room and moved into the baths, “What even made you think of it?”

And Sherlock gazed at him like he was gazing at the moon. “ _You_ did, John,” he said, “You drew my attention to the cemetery when you asked who would build a hunting lodge beside one. Given the activities of the Smallwoods as the Moriartys, I realised the answer was ‘People who have something to hide.’ It was misty, I would never have noticed it if you hadn’t pointed it out to me, but once I looked, I realised that that the earth mound on that grave was considerably higher than that of the other fresh graves. I realised that more earth must have been removed. Why would more earth be removed? - To make room for a second body, but that cemetery wasn’t one of the ones listed for re-use. Lady Fairfax disappeared relatively recently and a hunting lodge provides convenient cover. People get used to the sounds and activities associated with it. When Thomas Smallwood confirmed that she had outlived her usefulness to him, I knew she had to be in that grave.”

John was shaking his head again, this time in admiration. “Amazing,” he breathed, “Just amazing. You make it sound so simple.”

“It **is** simple, John.”

“Only for you,” John replied, “Do you think everyone carries a list of the re-use cemeteries around in their heads?”

“Well, they ought to,” Sherlock sniffed, then smiled at him.

John smiled back. Then he realized, “Hey, the Moriarty problem’s been sorted now, right? Does that mean you’re off the hook?”

Sherlock stared at him, thunderstruck. “I… guess so. I hope so.”

“I hope so too,” John said, smiling softly. 

His soft smile stayed throughout the rest of their visit, through the baths and the massages. Sherlock chattered happily, looking like a man relieved of a great burden. All of his masks were down and he looked so boyish, his face so expressive, that John felt utterly charmed. “There you are,” he murmured at one point when they were in the drying room, “I knew you were still in there somewhere.”

Sherlock paused, puzzled, “What do you mean?”

For a moment, John himself wasn’t quite sure what he meant, then it clarified. “Who you were, before the bullies and the drugs and Mycroft all forced you to bury your feelings and put up walls to defend yourself and become an arse to keep people away. I always wondered what sort of man you might have become if you hadn’t had to do all of that. I kept getting glimpses so I knew you had to be in there somewhere. Now I know.”

Sherlock looked away, pressing his lips together to stop them from trembling. He looked like he was trying not to tear up. “John, I… I’m not… I mean, I won’t…”

“I know,” John said reassuringly, “You’ll put your walls back up and your feelings back in their chest and in the morning, you’ll be the arse I know and adore and that’s fine. You need all of that to survive, I know that. It’s your armour against the battlefield, I know that. That’s you. It’s just… Well, Mrs. Hudson doesn’t get to see you like this, does she?”

Sherlock chewed his lip and shook his head, “No.”

“And Mycroft definitely doesn’t.”

“Oh, god no,” Sherlock snorted and they both giggled like school children. “But you do,” he whispered finally.

“Yeah,” John smiled. “Come on,” he said after a moment, “Let’s go home.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes a phone call.

Morning found Sherlock already up, as he so often was. John staggered out of the bedroom towards the kitchen. Sherlock, shirtless and in his pyjama bottoms, was standing at the table, texting. He looked grimly satisfied with whatever it was he was seeing. “They’re exploring the rest of the cemetery,” he told John, “They’ve found other bodies. Other than the ones who are supposed to be there, I mean.” John grinned at him and went to make tea. 

The dramatic murder-suicide of Lady Smallwood and her son Thomas was all over the news. “I still can’t believe we got away with that,” John said quietly. 

“Anderson has a hidden talent for fabricating crime scenes.”

“I suppose it comes from all his years of analysing them,” John nodded, “Knowing where to place the rifle and all that. Though I was afraid they’d see marks from the silencer.”

“Hidden by all of the other marks on the barrel. It was a well-used rifle, after all.”

John nodded. “You didn’t have to do it, you know,” he said softly, “They would have seen immediately that the bullets didn’t match my gun. They would have seized it but I would only have faced a fine, most likely.”

Sherlock was silent for several moments. “It wasn’t just for you,” he said softly, “Lady Smallwood’s involvement would have brought Mycroft into public awareness. As I’ve told you, he **is** the British government, but not many people know that and it needs to stay that way. This would have exposed him to scrutiny and destroyed his effectiveness in international security, not just homeland security.”

“So you faked a murder-suicide to protect Mycroft. To protect his job.”

“Much as I’m loathe to admit it, he **is** my big brother.”

“You old softy.”

“Don’t ever tell him I said that.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock turned and John’s gaze was drawn to the small puckered scar on his ribs. “I thought we were next, you know,” he whispered, “I truly thought she was going to shoot us next.” Sherlock said nothing. “She wasn’t getting you unless it was through me.”

“She didn’t, though.”

“No, and that worries me. Thomas was her half-brother. They were probably the only family she had left and she killed them. Why? To take it over?”

“I don’t think so,” Sherlock said, resting his chin on John’s hair as John embraced him, “She wanted to be free of her old life.”

John sighed, “Do you think it’s over, then?”

“I thought it was over when Moriarty died,” Sherlock said quietly, “I was wrong.” 

John started giggling. “I am never, _ever_ going to forget that you said that.”

“Oh, please.”

“Nope! Never.”

Sherlock snickered then looked at him, “They haven’t released the news about Thomas and Moriarty yet. I expect there’ll be more press descending on us, when they do.”

“Expected that,” John nodded, “Got your hat ready?” He grinned toothily at Sherlock’s cringe.

“You know I hate the hat.”

“No you don’t. You love the hat. You love being Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Sherlock Holmes is a junkie who solves crimes to get high instead of cocaine, plays violin in the middle of the night, and is deliberately an arsehole of majestic proportions. And then there’s this… this _fiction_ who goes about having ‘adventures’,” he sneered, “Who solves every crime, even ones that haven’t been committed yet, and wears a stupid hat, thank you Anderson. **No** , John, I do **not** love the press, I do **not** love the fame, it got me killed once already, and I do **not** love that stupid, idiotic, utterly ridiculous death frisbee of a hat!”

The silence was leaden. John chewed his lip for a moment. “You love being Sherlock though.”

“I’m _me_ , John. I don’t want to be anyone else, not anymore. I was probably a thousand other people while I was gone,” Sherlock said tiredly, “Do you have any idea how difficult it is, pretending to be normal?”

John was silent for a few moments. Finally he nodded, “Yes. Yeah, I think I do. While I was married, it was… I had to…” He sighed, unable to put words around it, “You saw what it did to me.”

“I did.”

“And it’s been,” he sighed and pushed his hands through his hair, “A **lot** easier since I moved back with you. So yeah, I guess I do understand.” Sherlock smiled at him and John couldn’t resist. He stepped forward and combed his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and kissed his lips. “I don’t want you to be anyone else, either,” he said softly, “I like Sherlock Holmes just the way he is, arse and all. …No that didn’t sound quite right, did it.”

“Go back to sleep, John,” Sherlock chuckled. 

“Nope, I don’t think I will. I think I’ll nip ‘round to Tesco and pick up some milk and some breakfast, how does that sound?”

“Fine.” Sherlock watched John go to get dressed. When John was gone, he answered the text that he’d received. 

A few moments later, his mobile rang and he answered it. “I must admit, that was very neatly done. But what _exactly_ are you playing at?” He listened tensely then relaxed, “Ah, yes, I see. And… do you think you’ve achieved it? Yes, I suppose so. Well, as I said, it was _very_ neatly done, taking them by surprise like that. The lack of security… Ahhh, I did wonder, yes. It seemed a little too convenient, yes. And… what will you do now?” He listened, then went to a drawer and rummaged in it until he found what he was looking for, tucked inside a card with a black W, on top of an older Blackberry mobile. “I see. Well, then. I’ll send a number to you. Tell whomever answers that Sherlock Holmes has made a vow and intends to keep it. She’ll understand immediately.” He smiled and looked up when he heard footsteps on the stairs. “John?” The door opened and Sherlock looked around to see John entering with a puzzled, inquiring expression, “He’s just at Tesco, actually. Yes, he is. Well… as well as can be expected given his circumstances. Yes,” his voice softened as he gazed at John, “I intend to keep that vow, too.”

John’s puzzled expression cleared as he realised who Sherlock was talking to. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows hesitantly, inquiring, but John shook his head and looked away. 

“Good luck then,” Sherlock said, “Yes, perhaps. Yes, I will. Goodbye.” He cut the call then looked at John. “It’s over.”

John’s lips pressed into a thin line. “How much danger are we in?”

Sherlock shook his head, “From them, very little. From her, none. She wanted to be free of it but there was only one way to ensure that. She spent the last while approaching other members of the family and eliminating them, one way or another. Then she set everything in place, set us up, and sprang us on them when they weren’t prepared for us.”

“And set up so that it would look like a murder-suicide.”

“She knew it would go bad for you, John,” Sherlock said softly, “She chose you, in the end.”

John looked down. “You called it ‘human error’, once.”

“It’s a weakness that renders oneself and everyone else vulnerable to exploitation,” Sherlock said, “It remains the primary motivating factor in the majority of violent crimes and murders.”

“Phil said you were talking about yourself.” Now it was Sherlock who looked away. “A chemical defect, found on the losing side, you said.”

“It’s true,” Sherlock said slowly, “I do see it as a defect.”

“Sherlock…”

“And it goes against every shred of rationalism I prefer to abide… and it’s definitely proven to be a weakness, just as I’d feared…”

“Sherlock, don’t…”

“But as much as I might wish otherwise…”

“Oh, thanks.”

“It doesn’t mean that I’m incapable of l-*”

_**”DON’T SAY THAT WORD!”** _

Sherlock stared at him, then looked away, wounded. After a few moments, he whispered, “Nevertheless, the sentiment is there.”

John started to laugh brokenly. “The sentiment… God, it’s…” He looked back at Sherlock, “The sentiment isn’t the problem, the sentiment is fine. The sentiment is welcome and… and returned, oh God, you have no idea…” He went up to Sherlock and rested his hands on his shoulders, “It’s not the sentiment that’s the problem, Sherlock, it’s just the word. I just… I can’t take that word anymore, I can’t, I just… I just can’t.”

“Then I won’t say it.”

John felt his shoulders sag and couldn’t help but smile with relief - if there was anyone who would understand this, it was Sherlock Holmes. “You are the best and wisest person I have ever known,” he said quietly, “And you have been so supportive of me, even when I didn’t deserve it, even when I made the wrong choices, and I…” He looked down again under the weight of Sherlock’s gaze, “Your ‘sentiment’ is easily the most pure example of its kind I’ve ever encountered and that fact that you, you chose **me** to… You chose **me** …”

“John…”

John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes and cupped his cheek, “I can’t tarnish your ‘sentiment’ by putting such a tainted word on it.”  
Sherlock chewed his lip for a moment then looked at John again, puzzled, “When did you think you didn’t deserve it?”

John looked away. _When I beat you up after you’d been tortured. When I didn’t even notice. When I drove you to relapse. When I chose her, knowing she shot you,_ he thought, becoming aware of just how his behaviour seemed, the more he looked back on it. “I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you,” he said quietly.

“As am I,” Sherlock’s voice was just as soft. 

John nodded and drew Sherlock into an embrace. “Let’s not hurt each other anymore.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all over but the epilogues.

It was a bright and sunny day, the trees colourful, a brisk temperature and the breeze bringing the scent of leaves. Mycroft sat on the dock with a cup of tea and a book. It was between hunting seasons and there was not a soul around. The only sounds were the lapping of the waves and the occasional call of a loon. As he’d suspected, now that the crisis had passed, he could indeed relax and enjoy the solitude of the little cottage. 

The crunch of tyres made him look up, wondering if perhaps Philip had returned. He noted a rental plate as the vehicle rounded the hairpin switchback turn and a glimpse of the driver’s silhouette. He started up the dock as the car parked and the occupants got out. 

He watched as Sherlock descended the steep path cautiously, reaching for John’s hand to guide him down safely. Then he caught sight of Mycroft and stopped dead. And grinned. And started laughing. He pointed at Mycroft, “Is that..?” He trailed off, overcome by a fit of giggles, “Is that what the natives are wearing these days?”

Mycroft smiled easily in his red and black checked woolen jacket, flannel shirt, and jumper, though he suspected that it was his hat that was causing his brother to be almost literally falling down laughing, given the slipperiness of the steep path. “It can be rather chilly down near the water. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson. There’s tea in the cottage, on the woodstove. Did you have a pleasant trip?”

“It was alright until we got to Toronto Pearson,” John said.

“They were filming some kind of border patrol ‘reality’ programme,” Sherlock sneered.

“Bit of a media circus when they realised who we were,” John chuckled, “Good thing Phil was there to meet us, there were calls to the OPP. I almost want to see the finished episode.” Sherlock snorted. 

“And where is Philip now?”

“He got a call,” Sherlock said, “An SUV went off the road down a bluff and into a lake. The occupants were armed to the teeth with assault rifles, sniper weapons, that sort of thing.”

Mycroft twitched an eyebrow, “And you didn’t go with him?”

“I did but there was no point in me staying,” Sherlock shrugged, “It was obvious why they were there. Their GPS map was wrong.“

_I was worried about you,_ Mycroft read in Sherlock’s eyes. “Gang related, do you think?”

“Obviously.” _They were Smallwood’s men._

Mycroft nodded, “Well, the GPS maps for the area **are** terribly inaccurate, and no mobile coverage or wifi, either.” He smiled, “The cottage belongs to Philip’s landlord’s family. He brought me here because he thought I would like it.” _Because he thought I would be safer._

“It appears he was correct.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft smiled, “He would appear to be a man of many hidden talents.” _Would you mind if I made him an offer?_

Sherlock looked away and glanced back with a tiny smile, “If you like goldfish.” _Go ahead._

They went into the sitting room of the cottage, snug with warmth from the wood stove. A pot of soup simmered on the stove’s hob and a pot of tea sat on the warming shelf. They shucked their jackets and John looked around at the books and DVDs while Sherlock scowled at his mobile phone. “No signal,” he groused.

“Indeed not,” Mycroft’s smile had a slightly brittle edge, “It’s been rather trying, at times. I can’t imagine what’s gone on in my absence.”

“Mm, the whole country’s gone to pieces, I’m sure,” Sherlock snickered. 

“Perhaps not but I **did** have several situations that I was monitoring. If the trails have gone cold in my absence, I shall be most put out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “The Indonesian situation has resolved itself, the crisis in Syria is being monitored, three of your people in the Ukraine have lost contact and investigations into their whereabouts have begun…”

“And Timmy fell down the well,” John finished. Mycroft shot him a Look. 

He gathered his dignity and said, “Well. It appears my assistant has been unusually efficient. She of course knows what’s going on but she seldom displays that level of synthesis.”

“No more than usual,” Sherlock said, “It **was** her idea though, and she played her part well.”

Mycroft’s memory flicked up a card, of hearing his assistant’s voice while he was passing out from whatever drug cocktail Sherlock had injected him with. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock accepted a bowl of soup and sat beside John on the couch, “She suggested that she could continue to coordinate in your absence so as to maintain the fiction that I was back in rehab. She knew she was unable to do the work but we found someone willing to step in.”

Mycroft’s brow creased even as his lip curled, “You found somebody who could do _my_ work? Who? How?”

“Your assistant simply provided your laptop and a summary of the situations and with a little bit of coaching, it all went off without a hitch. No one suspected anything.”

“But who did she give it to? You?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was investigating the Smallwoods.”

“If not you, then _who?_ Because I cannot think of anyone else who could conceivably be capable of doing my work.” Incredibly, Sherlock turned and grinned widely at John, who made a great show of grousing as he reached for his wallet and withdrew a fiver. “What?!”

Sherlock was still grinning cheekily, “Oh, I bet John five quid that you’d make the same mistake again.”

“ _What_ mistake?” Now John was grinning and starting to giggle. “ _Sherlock._ ”

“ _Statistically_ , it was rather unlikely but fortunately I didn’t have to look very far. And she was _monstrously_ good at it.”

Mycroft’s face was a series of pictures as he worked it all out. “ _ **Mummy?!?**_ You brought _Mummy_ into this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, she insisted.” Mycroft stared in disbelief. Sherlock shook his head. “We always forget,” he said quietly, “Even though her books were everywhere, even though she taught us how to think and use our minds, all we remember are the potatoes and the operas and the lottery tickets. We never seem to remember that we got it all from her.” Mycroft looked away, uncomfortable. “Of course she could substitute for you, and she did it marvellously. With your assistant doing her normal job in her normal fashion, no one even noticed. _Not even Lady Smallwood_.”

Mycroft turned back, his face doing that twitchy thing he did whenever he was called out and trying to recover gracefully. “Well. I suppose I shall have to thank her.”

Sherlock sipped his tea. “They knew about the Scottish cottage.”

Mycroft winced, “Ah. I wondered why you had shipped me all the way over _here._ ”

“They knew about nearly all of your usual bolt-holes.”

“This is one of _yours?_ ”

Sherlock nodded, “I knew the OPP night dispatcher. I solved a case for her and one for her niece. She introduced me to her big brother, who is Anderson’s landlord, and to her little brother, who owns this cottage.”

John looked impressed, “Big family?”

“Seven children, with children and grandchildren of their own.”

They looked up at the crunch of tyres and Anderson arrived. “How’d it go?” Sherlock asked him. 

“They’re all Canadians, probably contracted. Turns out there was a meth lab bust a few lakes over a little while ago, so when the techs made their own conclusions, I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s for the best,” Mycroft agreed. 

“Moose season is opening soon. This place is probably going to get busier,” Philip told him apologetically.

Mycroft nodded, “Quite alright. I should return to work in England, now that it’s safe to do so.” He looked at Sherlock for confirmation. “What about you?” and his eyes flicked momentarily Johnwards. 

“We’re owed a bit of a holiday - a real one, this time,” said Sherlock, who had also noticed the way John kept looking longingly at the lake and around the cottage and had perked up then sagged ever so slightly at the mention of moose season, “We’ll stay for a bit.”

“Plenty of room at my place,” Philip said, “There’s even a serial killer!”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, “Really?”

Philip nodded then sighed sadly, “I’d appreciate your help with it, really - I’m pretty certain that it’s blue code.”

“What does Gregson have to say about it?”

“Once I showed him that the marks on the bodies weren’t caused by bears but made to imitate bears, he agreed, but if it is blue code, there’ll be backlash.”

“Sorry, what’s blue code?” John asked.

“Philip thinks someone on the police force is the killer and the other police are covering up for it.”

John nodded, “What he thought about you, then.”

“He was meant to think that. Moriarty took advantage of the fact that Philip’s not the type to stay silent, even if there are consequences.”

Philip blushed but nodded, “No, I’m just not, and I’m still not. I know I got it wrong with you, that’s why I’d appreciate it if you would take a look at my evidence.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” Philip said and sighed, “And then I’ll probably end up going home again because once that blows open, they won’t want me around anymore.”

“We’ll discuss that tonight at crokinole,” Mycroft said smoothly. 

* * * *

“You’re really alright with staying here for a bit?” John asked, “It’s just… I know it’s not really your thing, hunting and fishing, the whole ‘great outdoors’ thing.”

Sherlock gazed out over the lake, painted violet by the last streaks of the sun going down. The water lapped against the dock where they sat, watching the stars come out. There was no mobile signal out here and no wifi. It was quiet and peaceful and all of the things that drove him crazy. There was nothing to do but fish, hunt with people he didn’t really know, trundle around in various types of boats, go for walks, read tired old books or watch tired old DVDs. He’d be bored in no time. 

But he’d seen the look in John’s eyes and knew that John wanted to do all of those things. John who’d had a miserable couple of years and badly needed a break to catch his breath and start the process of putting it all behind him. And, if he was being honest with himself, so did he. “It’ll be fine,” he said.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what happens next?

“C’mon, Sherlock!”

“I dunno, Mycroft’s pretty soundly defended.” 

“What I can’t get over is they haven’t even looked at the board!”

“Oh yes, you should see them playing ‘Operation.’”

Mycroft’s finger flicked the disc and sent it skating across the crokinole board. A cheer went up and he scowled. 

“Seven years catching up to you, big brother?” Sherlock smirked. 

“Oh shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft huffed. He leaned out of the way as Sergeant Gregson cleared the board. 

“How is the investigation going?” Monsieur Thibault asked as the board was reset. 

“There’s a lot of evidence pointing towards a holiday killer, someone doing their kills over their vacation period,” Philip replied, “I’m thinking it’s someone on the Toronto force. There are a couple of people who’s vacation cycles match up to…”

“Anderson, stop talking,” Sherlock sighed, “You’re still an idiot.”

“Just as you say, Sherlock,” Philip said meekly, “And you’re still an arse.”

Sherlock smiled, one of his crooked half-smiles that were rare enough, then he leaned forward and took Philip’s tablet. He thumbed through a few images then tapped one, “Arrest this man.”

“ **Him?!** ” Gregson gaped, “But he’s one of the most respected officers on the RCMP! He’s got a stellar reputation! He’s incredibly generous to his staff, everyone wants to get assigned under him!”

“Exactly, which is why everyone covers for him. They know about the murders but as long as he doesn’t kill anybody too high-profile…”

“White,” Tanya translated.

Sherlock nodded, “Then they’ll look the other way. You’re right about two things, Philip: He does kill during his holidays, and the Toronto men you’ve identified are accomplices. He uses this man’s cottage and this man lends him his truck to dispose of the bodies.”

Gregson shook his head with a low whistle, “This guy’s going to be tough to crack. The case against him is going to have to be airtight.”

“Despite my opinion of his deductive skills, Philip and Ms. Kusugak have pulled together evidence of excellent quality. It will not take long to tie it all up.”

“Unbelievable,” John breathed. Sherlock turned like a sunflower turning towards the sun. “You just _look_ at it and it all just jumps out at you.”

“It’s there for anyone to see, John.”

John shook his head, “Nobody sees the way you do.”

The silence in their gaze drew out until Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. Gregson grinned, “Best up, John?”

“You bet,” John said, finally tearing himself away from Sherlock.

Gregson palmed the discs and held out his hands for John to choose. “There’s more where that came from, if you’re interested,” he told Sherlock, “Found another one this morning.”

“Really?”

Philip nodded his chin towards his tablet, “Check it out, today’s folder. Not one, not two, but three right distal humeri.”

“Ooo!”

John looked up, “Does this place have that many serial killers?”

“This whole country’s a playground for serial killers,” Sherlock said as he flicked through the images, “All they have to do is target the Red Indian women, the police won’t care and the media won’t even notice.”

“Native,” Tanya corrected. 

Sherlock glanced at her. “Ah? Apologies. I haven’t actually met any.. Natives, before now.”

She nodded, “Doesn’t help that it varies, eh? Some people prefer Indigenous, some prefer Aboriginal, some people actually do prefer Indian. I’m Inuk, I don’t like Eskimo. Stick with Native, you’ll do okay.”

“Thank you. And… you’re the Canadian Smallwood child, then?”

The table sat in thunderstruck silence as Tanya grinned wolfishly. “Nope,” she answered, “But I know him. His mother worked as a chambermaid in Churchill. She was 15. My mother was her supervisor. She walked in on it. She threatened to report that Smallwood guy to the Department of Indian and Northern Affairs. They don’t give a shit but he didn’t know that. He offered her money to stay silent. Mom bargained hard.”

“Hard enough to put you through school.”

“Both of us, me and the boy Smallwood fathered,” Tanya nodded, “He works as a researcher now on Hudson’s Bay. Studies polar bears. Smallwood’s guys came looking for him but it’s easy to get lost if you lead a traditional lifestyle.”

“But they found your mother,” Sherlock said softly, “And murdered her.”

Tanya nodded slowly, “I wasn’t sure at first. She disappeared. But no one cares, Mr. Holmes, and I got a good IT degree, so I went looking.”

“She was looking for information about Lord Smallwood,” M. Thibault added, “He used an alias of course but she managed to uncover quite a bit before she was caught. But we know talent when we see it.”

“Indeed. Which seems an excellent time to table our proposal,” Mycroft said easily, “Have you heard of Target Forensics?”

Philip frowned, “Isn’t that that American retail chain that has its own crime lab and even contracts out?”

“Exactly,” Mycroft said, “Interpol is looking to pilot a similar project, with the aim of assisting international investigations. It could also contract out similarly, to assist individual police departments with their enquiries.”

Sergeant Gregson sat up, “Such as departments looking to clean house internally?”

“Exactly,” M. Thibault smiled, “Tanya, Geoffrey, we have discussed the matter thoroughly and we would like to extend the offer to you, first.”

Philip and Tanya looked at each other in shock. “Consulting forensic analysis technician,” Sherlock snickered, “Only one in the world. You could invent the job.”

“…There’s a catch?” Philip said cautiously.

Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly as Mycroft smoothly said, “There is an element of risk involved, of course, as there always is with international investigations. We will, of course, allow you time to discuss it and think it over.”

Into the quiet, Sergeant Gregson raked together the crokinole disks, “Best two out of three?”

* * * *

Back at the cottage, Philip leaned on the porch rail, watching the stars over the lake. His tea had gone cold and his breath steamed in the midnight chill. The screen door creaked behind him and he turned to see Sherlock emerging, wrapped in his coat. “Moose hunt this weekend,” he warned, “They’ll close up the cottages soon after. It’ll be cold soon.”

Sherlock nodding but didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced at Philip’s cup and said, “You’re still awake but you’ve barely touched your tea.”

Philip nodded, “I’m sure you know why. I’ve been thinking about your brother’s offer.”

“You’ve impressed him. Well done.”

Philip smiled, then he looked at Sherlock, “What’s the catch? He said there were risks involved; what am I looking at?”

“What’s impressed Mycroft the most is your ability to fabricate evidence,” Sherlock said, “Creating convincing fake crime scenes is very useful. The catch is, if you take the offer, you may be called upon to cover up assassinations, botched terrorism attacks, that sort of thing. It will fall under the ‘other duties as required’ disclaimer. It’s not _quite_ the same as blue code but it may still bother your conscience.” 

Philip nodded again. “He made it into one hell of a sweet deal. There’d be international travel involved. They pay’d be such that I could keep my house here **and** my flat in London.”

Sherlock nodded, “You’ll be able to do what you’re best at, and **I’ll** be able to contract you as well.”

“That’d be useful to you,” Philip agreed, “So would having access to Tanya’s hacking abilities be good for you.”

“The other catch is, you’ll be disposable,” Sherlock said bluntly, “If a situation needs to be ‘sanitised’, you’ll be sacrificed. Quite probably you won’t even know it.” Philip chewed that over. Sherlock shrugged, “He doesn’t sacrifice any of his people unless it’s his absolute last resort, and you’re valuable.” 

Philip nodded slowly, “I see. Well, that explains the pay rate. It’d need to be sweet to convince people to take that kind of risk.” He was silent for a few moments. “Thanks for this,” he said at last.

Sherlock shrugged, “You were already looking into working in Canada.”

“Not just this. All of it - the house, the job, trusting me with your brother… I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Sherlock said, looking out over the lake, “This was me repaying you.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Your little fan club. As foolish and ill-advised as your activities were, you kept doubt in the public mind. You kept a space open for me to return to. Because of you, I had cases to come back to. In essence, Philip, you saved my livelihood.” Sherlock glanced quickly at Philip then looked away again. “You were wasted as a security guard. The Met were fools to sack you.”

Philip was silent for several minutes. “You know they’re not training them anymore? The new detective constables, I mean.”

“…What?”

“They don’t get any training anymore, they’re just thrown out into the field and then pressured to close cases when they haven’t learned how. That’s why they were all trying to get onto Greg’s team, he was the only one still trying to teach them. That’s why he kept bringing rookies to scenes he’d called you in on, he was hoping they’d be smart enough to learn from you. Though with the latest round of budget cuts, I doubt he’ll be able to do that anymore.”

“…I see.”

“That’s part of the reason everyone hated you so much. They **knew** they didn’t know what they were doing but they had to pretend they did.”

“…Ah.”

“Will you be contracting through this new special agency?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Possibly. The taxes might be easier for John. Mycroft likes things tidy and doesn’t like me messing up his discretionary budgets.”

Philip nodded. “I was thinking of riding your coat tails and calling ourselves ‘Baker Street Irregularities,’” he said tentatively.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “If you must.”


End file.
